


Let's Write A Swimming Pool

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, McLennon, Nostalgia, Skinny Dipping, Underwater kisses, Work of fiction, not my take on reality, sexual situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: John and Paul skinny dipping. Lost weekend.





	Let's Write A Swimming Pool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whereitwillgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereitwillgo/gifts).



> This was written for @Whereitwillgo who wanted a skinny dipping fic. It actually took me a really long time to write because I'm so tired! It took me like 2 weeks... But i hope it's ok. Please, let me know. 
> 
> Also. I actually tried out the underwater scene. On my hand. You can sustain it about a minute easily. Holding your breath. Just saying.
> 
> In other news. This fic sucks because I forgot how to write.

“You're going to drown and they'll put it in the fucking papers. McCartney killed in Lennon's swimming pool,” John says setting his drink down on the lopsided garden table.

“That's a terrible headline, that is. Good job you never went into journalism.”

Paul is naked in the swimming pool, doing a leisurely backstroke. John tries not to look straight at him as if the sight of the man might transfix him so, he'll be dragged to his death like a wayward sailor. 

John scoffs. “Those who can't create… become journalists. Come on, get out of there. Put your swimming pants on at least. What will they think?” 

He rolls up the legs of his trousers and put his feet in the water. Like a shark scenting him out, Paul swims over and puts a hand on John's ankle. His stomach sinks, Paul's touch still sends a thrill through him he can't suppress. 

“You've come over all prim!” Paul exclaims, tugging on John's foot playfully. “I thought you came to L.A. to sow your wild oats. Why don't you join me in here instead?”

“Because I'm drunk. And you're drunk and I've no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil the way Brian Jones did,” John says dryly. He presses the flat of his foot against Paul’s wet chest and pushes him backwards, his head plunges under. 

“You'd make quite a splash,” Paul says when he resurfaces.

“Ha, bloody ha.”

“Why don't you come in? I can tell you want to,” Paul coaxes him.

John makes a face. “Did you see them? Watching us like… even Linda… like they thought we were going to strangle each other on sight.” He kicks his feet causing ripples on the surface of the pool. 

“They're just curious. Anyway, no one's here now,” Paul said.

John removes his T-shirt, tosses it to the ground and then turns to look over his shoulder. Paul bursts out laughing and John can't help but join in just like the old days.

“I've seen it before, babe,” Paul says, leering at John. And even if I hadn't, you made sure the whole world saw it.”

John just manages to unbutton his jeans before Paul grasps him by both ankles and pulls him into the water. He's lucky he doesn't crack his head on the side of the pool. Underwater, their bodies collide, Paul is a blur of flesh and dark hair, fine as mist. His knee is in Paul's stomach, Paul's elbows are in his chest, their hands are all over each other, pushing, grasping, scratching. John's jeans soak through at once and drag him downwards. He kicks down hard, launching himself to the surface just past his fingertips, anticipated cool night air beyond the break. Paul’s arms come around him and John stops struggling, his mind wonderfully empty. And Paul presses his mouth to John's.

John parts his lips at once and air escapes them in frantic bubbles. Paul slides his tongue against his, he tastes pool water as it enters and rushes from their mouths. The kiss seems to go on for ages, increasing desperate, achingly familiar. John's head is muzzy, his lungs tight. He forgot humans need to breathe, they need oxygen. If he could have it his way he'd never stop kissing Paul. Oxygen be damned.

They push their way back up to the surface, gulping water and choking. John's lungs are strained, labouring, greedy for oxygen. They suck in air hungrily, spitting and sniffling and laughing. Treading water, they cling to each other, John puts his arms around Paul's neck and lets him carry him for a moment.

“I—” John begins.

“Shh.”

Paul reaches down, pushes John's jeans off his hips, dragging them down. John kicks them off awkwardly, he's lighter without them, free. He presses his lips to Paul's neck, touches his tongue to his chilled wet skin. Paul tastes like chlorine and regret. John lets go and swims to the edge of the pool, grips the side, struggling to catch his breath. The world is spinning, he wipes the water from his face and blinks, passes the back of his hand over his nose. When he looks up Paul is beside him, water streaming from that pathetic moustache in rivulets. 

“Hi there,” Paul says.

“Hi yourself.” He takes a deep breath like he's preparing to go under again and kisses Paul before he can change his mind. 

Then they're scrambling up out of the pool, John grabs Paul's hand and pulls him towards the poolhouse. Paul is panting for air, laughing, clinging to John's hand. He's just like a boy again. That silly giggle, the way he whips John round to face him and grins like he knows something John doesn't. 

“You don't know anything,” John says, rolling his eyes though Paul hasn't said a word.

“I know you,” Paul says.

“Fuck you do.”

And Paul's pulling him down into the grass, hands pressing his shoulders down, his mouth covering his. He reaches down to touch Paul's cock just like he wanted to do in the pool, in the house, in the studio. Fuck, the moment he walked back into John's life looking stoned and nervy with that bad haircut. Paul is shivering, hands sliding down over John's wet skin.

“Told you,” he whispers.

They can't stop touching each other, tasting each other. John wants to lick every inch of Paul's skin, reacustom himself with every cell of the man. For one wonderful, horrible moment John can't recall why they were ever apart. He shuts down the doubts, the memories as Paul strokes his hard cock and he strokes Paul's.

“Oh, there, there, there,” Paul murmurs, his breath explosive in his ear. It sounds like a love song to John.

He can't tell who comes first. They climax like Olympic runners competing neck and neck, spill onto each other's grasping hands. They lie there, John's head on Paul's chest, drunk with pleasure, drunk on each other, just plain drunk. John hums the tune stuck in his head absently, Paul's heartbeat keeping time.

“Now they come looking for us, it'll be Key West all over again,” John says, laughing soundlessly.

“That's not what I remember about Key West,” Paul says, his hand soft on John's damp hair.

“Lots of crying and drunken proclamations,” John sneers, his heart isn't in it though. He remembers they loved each other then, he had no doubt that night. Real love. 

“Just because you're drunk doesn't mean it's not true,” Paul says. Those are the truest words John has heard in ages. 

They should head back before they're looked for but instead they stumble into the pool house, wrap up in towels and lie down on the rough wooden floor shoulder to shoulder. John tries to think of what to say but the words elude him like an escaped melody on the horizon of his consciousness.

Paul turns to face John, puts his cheek against John's in a maddeningly childish manner. “I know you,” he says drowsily.

“I know you,” John repeats after a beat. These days he doesn't know himself anymore. But he knows Paul. Paul is always Paul.


End file.
